


Corona Borealis

by snuffsoul



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Celtic Mythology, Mabinogion (Myth), Welsh Mythology
Genre: Childhood, Family, Family Fluff, Gen, Protective Siblings, Royalty, Swordfighting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-02
Updated: 2017-07-02
Packaged: 2018-11-21 23:22:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11367759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snuffsoul/pseuds/snuffsoul
Summary: Arianrhod visits her brother at Caer Lludd and finds herself enjoying the company of her nieces and nephews more than she’s willing to admit.





	Corona Borealis

She doesn't like children.

Here, as a guest in the palace of her half-brother at Caer Lludd, Arianrhod holds her tongue.

It is warmer and busier and brighter here than her own abode at Caer Arianrhod. Fires seem to burn hotter. Songs echo about the stone walls. Servants bustle and fuss, and the children who get under their feet are rarely scolded. It sets her on edge. There are no children at Caer Arianrhod. They are not welcome.

Owain is the quietest of her half-brother’s children and the servants' most beloved, and for that reason she finds his presence most bearable. Edern, tall and broad-shouldered, is obnoxious in his constant sparring and jousting and sword-waving, and Creiddylad, sweet and dainty, is unbearably bright and studious. Arianrhod can tolerate them because, for the most part, they keep their distance.

But Gwyn she dislikes the most. He seems to appear wherever she goes, owl-like in his ever-watching, and even when she is alone, she is sure he is spying. His hair is as pale and bright as that of her wretched son, Lleu, and he matches the boy in cleverness and charm. In moments of lucidity, she knows she cannot blame Lleu for his own birth but she feels nothing but humiliation and animosity when she thinks of him and—innocent as he is—she cannot help but feel the same when she sees young Gwyn.

She’s watching him now, that same irritation tugging at her nerves but for once he is too engaged in sword-fighting with Edern to pester her. It is nigh sunset. Birds are settling in the trees around them, and the sky is as purple as a bruise. Just above the horizon, the moon hangs fat and bright, and the stars are beginning to twinkle beyond the clouds. She leans against the doorjamb of the arched entrance way, looking out across the lawn, where Lludd's children are playing, unintimidated by the brisk evening air. The thwack of the wooden practice swords is rhythmic, like a dance, and she can hear the rush of a river in the distance. At length, she realises her brother is standing beside her. He seems to have aged since the last time she was at Caer Lludd; the silver of his hair mirrors the silver of his hand and there are deep creases under his friendly eyes.

"Something is troubling you, sister," he says. It is not a question. She makes an effort to rearrange her expression into something resembling nonchalance.

"Only these plagues that you're suffering under," she says. She's heard from passing bards of the plagues that have befallen her brother’s kingdom, even if she has not heard of them from Lludd himself. She draws her furs closer around her, and looks out at the children again.

Gwyn and Edern have finished sparring, and have moved onto passing a bow between themselves, taking it in turns to aim at trees across the field and at the rabbits that skirt about the hedgerow. Edern is broader and better with a sword, but Gwyn is skillful with a bow and hits his targets with ease, even in the half-darkness. Creiddylad mimics her older brothers eagerly; the bow is comically bigger than her, but her face is creased with determination and she manages some half-successes. Gwyn is calm and patient in teaching her, and protective when Edern loses his patience. Nearby, Owain sits on the dewy grass, paying them only a fraction of his attention.  
  
Arianrhod turns back to face Lludd. She notices that he, too, was watching the children.  
  
"Indeed," he says. "I cannot speak much of the plagues but, for the sake of my country, for the sake of my children, I'll find an end to them." His smile is warm and comforting, and she finds herself so focused on it that she does not notice Creiddylad appearing at her side. The young girl hardly reaches above Arianrhod’s hip, and the last rays of sun glint in her sunflower-gold hair. When she speaks, her voice is so gentle and flowing that it barely sounds like words.  
  
“Lady Arianrhod?” she says, dipping her head in respect. “Come and join us. Come and shoot.”  
  
Her voice is shaky with timidity, and Arianrhod realises that she can count her past conversations with Creiddylad on one hand.  
  
Lludd laughs. “Your aunt is no hunter,” he insists but something, perhaps competitiveness, perhaps indignation at his words, makes Arianrhod bat away his protests.  
  
“Lead the way then,” she says to Creiddylad. She feels smug, perhaps smugger than she should feel about the prospect of besting children at archery. Creiddylad does not take her by the hand, but she walks close beside her, glancing up in quick sideways looks that betray her curiosity about her aunt. The sun has all but disappeared now; constellations twinkle above like distant fires, and the windows of the castle behind them come alive with warm, flickering orange light. In the town beyond the walls, lights from fires and torches are scattered like freckles.  
  
She can feel the damp grass lapping at her ankles and tugging at the hem of her dress as she walks. Edern and Gwyn turn to face their aunt. Owain puts down his book, and stands up.  
  
Edern lowers the bow in his hands, and there is an air of disbelief and admiration in his voice when he speaks. “Auntie!” he says, dropping the formalities he normally spoke to her with. “What a surprise! Have you come to join us?”

He passes her the bow eagerly, and she lets Creiddylad hold her fur cloak while Gwyn hands her an arrow from the quiver at his waist. The bow is smooth and smells of tallow and, her aim set on a yew tree across the field, she nocks the arrow instinctively. Creiddylad dances excitedly about her, the furs trailing about her feet.  
  
“Draw,” says Gwyn. His white-blonde hair is as bright as starlight, and his smile is crooked. She can sense that he is watching her closely.  
  
She pulls the string back firmly, eyes set on the tree. The muscles in her arms and back ache in protest. It's been too long since she last did this.

“Loose,” he says calmly, and she does. The fletchings graze her hand as the arrow shoots silently through the air and pierces the bark as if it were as soft as flesh. The children’s instant jubilation at her success makes her chest swell with something akin to pride, or happiness.

“Go again, please!” urges Crieddylad, and Gwyn passes his aunt another arrow. But Arianrhod is clumsy in her eagerness this time and as she goes to take it from him, the bow in her hand swings back and whacks hard into Creiddylad’s stomach. Creiddylad coughs and doubles over, and Gwyn is by her side faster than any of them. Arianrhod’s heart has leaped into her chest but Creiddylad’s face when she looks up is one of playfulness, and Arianrhod’s nerves are put at once to ease again.

“She’s wounded me _gravely_ ,” groans the little girl. “Good knights! Noble, ch-chivalrous knights! Aren’t you going to avenge me?” Her determined struggle to pronounce words clearly new to her vocabulary makes it all the more endearing. She punctuates her sentences with a few unconvincing moans and coughs for emphasis, and sways, before dropping theatrically to the ground, and gurgling. Arianrhod’s fur cloak, once a pale grey, is brown and green with mud and grass, and Creiddylad’s own dress is tattered at the hem, but nobody notices, least of all Arianrhod.  
  
The boys erupt into an instant argument about who is the bravest and most noble knight and who should fight for their sister against their evil, _tyrannical_ aunt, and even Owain offers himself up to the challenge, albeit nervously. Edern is the first to grab the wooden practice swords he had been using to fight earlier, but Gwyn is almost violent in his adamance. At length, after much toing and froing, and whether from generosity or from mild fear of his brother’s ferocity, Edern hands one weapon to Gwyn, and another to Arianrhod.  
  
Gwyn's pose is at once cocky and playful as he bounces the sword in his hands. Creiddylad has stopped her gurgling, and is sitting up to watch.  
  
 “I see I am forced to have ado with you, wretched witch,” Gwyn says. “Ready yourself.” His voice is mock-gruff, and Arianrhod can’t help but smile. When she glances back at the castle, she notices Lludd is watching them with interest.

Just as she had loosed arrows in her youth, she has experience swinging a sword, but Gwyn lunges before she is ready and she manages to stumble backwards just in time to miss the sword whistling past her shoulder. Even when she’s regained her balance, it takes all her focus just to block his swings. From the sidelines, Edern, Creiddylad and Owain are cheering and howling emphatically, although there is a great deal of ambiguity about whose side they're on.

“Mercy!” Arianrhod laughs, breathless, as Gwyn takes another swing at her. “Have mercy, nephew!”  
  
But Gwyn is relentless and, if it were not for his wide and bright smile, and eyes that glint with manic excitement, she might have assumed he was serious in his intentions to wound her. She dodges and ducks and blocks the best she can, but the grass is slippery and Gwyn over-eager. More than a few times, luck alone helps her narrowly avoid real injury.  
  
Then, as she begins to think she might be getting an upper hand, she dodges to the left, instead of the right. A sharp pain explodes between her eyes; Gwyn's elbow has met her nose. Stars burst into a thousand constellations behind her eyelids, and blood spurts across her white dress as she stumbles. Gwyn’s face is a picture of horror and he's all hands, fumbling and frantic, as he tries to help her. The other children have crowded around her in a noisy rabble. At once, Lludd is between them, his face flushed with rage. She can't quite focus on what he's shouting at Gwyn. One if the servants has rushed over, and is dabbing at Arianrhod’s nose with what she can only assume is the servant’s own skirt.  
  
And suddenly, she is laughing at the silliness of it all. Where she should be angry, she feels only mirth. She laughs and laughs and laughs, and cannot stop.  
  
“Dear brother,” she wheezes, fighting off the kind advances of the servant woman and pulling herself to her feet. Her dress is stained with grass and blood, and Creiddylad is hugging her leg tenderly, her face full of concern, brow furrowed and wet eyes threatening tears. Gwyn’s face is blotchy with worry, and his father holds his arm in a firm, angry grip. “Dear brother,” Arianrhod laughs again, “it was an accident. Leave him be. They’re only children.”  
  
And, for the first time, she finds she can forgive them for that.


End file.
